i 


The  Book  of  the  Native 


JharksGD  Roberts 


<D 


The  Book  of  the  Native 


By 
Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


Boston  —  New  York  —  London 
Lamson,  Wolffe  and  Company 

The  Copp,  Clark  Company,  Limited 

Toronto 

MDCCCXCVI 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  Lamson,  Wolffe  and  Company. 

All  rights  reserved 


NoriDOoli  iPrfsa 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


PR 

AUTHOR'S   NOTE 

Many  of  the  poems  in  this  collection  have  already 
appeared  in  the  pages  of  English,  American,  or  Cana- 
dian periodicals.  For  kind  courtesies  in  regard  to 
the  reprinting  of  such  poems  my  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments are  due  to  the  editors  of  Harper's  Magazine, 
The  Century,  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Scribner's  Mag- 
azine, The  Cosmopolitan,  Massefs  Magazine,  The 
Yellow  Book,  Harper's  Weekly,  The  Independent, 
Munsey's  Magazine,  T7ie  Chap-Book,  The  Outlook, 
The  Youth's  Companion,  Harper's  Bazar,  St.  Nicho- 
las, Truth. 

C.  G.  D.  R. 

Fredericton,  N.B.,  August,  1896. 


4S7'rt33 

LXBRAKX 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/bookofnativeOOrobe 


To 

Goodridge  Bliss  Roberts 

The  kindly  strength  of  open  fields, 
The  faith  of  eve,  the  calm  of  air. 

They  lift  my  spirit  close  to  thee 
In  memory  and  prayer. 


CONTENTS 

I.    THE   BOOK  OF  THE   NATIVE  Page 

Kinship " 

Origins ^^ 

An  April  Adoration '9 

An  Oblation 21 

Resurrection      .....••••  25 

Afoot 27 

Where  the  Cattle  come  to  Drink 3 1 

The  rical-All 32 

Recompense       ....•••••  35 

An  Epitaph  for  a  Husbandman 37 

The  Little  Field  of  Peace ¥> 

Renewal 43 

The  Unsleeping 45 

Recessional 4^ 

Earth's  Complines 52 

Two  Spheres      ....•••••  55 

The  Stillness  of  the  Frost 5^ 

A  Child's  Prayer  at  Evening 59 

II.     LYRICS 

The  Frosted  Pane 63 

The  Brook  in  February 64" 

Beside  the  Winter  Sea 65 

The  Quest  of  the  Arbutus 67 

The  Jonquil 7° 

7 


8  Contents 

Page 

The  Trout  Brook 7^ 

A  Wake-up  Song 75 

Butterflies 77 

J^iy J8 

An  August  Wood  Road °* 

Apple  Song ^4 

The  Cricket ^7 

The  Train  among  the  Hills 89 

The  Lone  Wharf 9° 

The  Witches'  Flight 92 

Three  Good  Things 95 

Trysting  Song 9^ 

Love's  Translator *°° 

Ebb »03 

Twilight  on  Sixth  Avenue I05 

Mothers *°7 

Up  and  Away  in  the  Morning 108 

Home,  Home  in  the  Evening no 

Sleepy  Man •         •         •         .112 

HL     BALLADS 

The  Wrestler "7 

The  Ballad  of  Crossing  the  Brook 120 

Whitewaters ^24 

The  Forest  Fire 136 

The  Vengeance  of  GluskSp ^42 

The  Muse  and  the  Wheel ^45 

The  "  Laughing  Sally  " »50 


The  Book  of  the  Native 


Kinship 

Back  to  the  bewildering  vision 
And  the  border-land  of  birth ; 

Back  into  the  looming  wonder, 
The  companionship  of  earth ; 

Back  unto  the  simple  kindred  — 
Childlike  fingers,  childlike  eyes, 

Working,  waiting,  comprehending, 
Now  in  patience,  now  surprise  ; 


TJie  Book  of  the  Native 

Back  unto  the  faithful  heahng 
And  the  candor  of  the  sod  — 

Scent  of  mould  and  moisture  stirring 
At  the  secret  touch  of  God ; 

Back  into  the  ancient  stillness 
Where  the  wise  enchanter  weaves, 

To  the  twine  of  questing  tree-root, 
The  expectancy  of  leaves  ; 

Back  to  hear  the  hushed  consulting 
Over  bud  and  blade  and  germ, 

As  the  Mother's  mood  apportions 
Each  its  pattern,  each  its  term ; 


Kinship 

Back  into  the  grave  beginnings 
Where  all  wonder-tales  are  true, 

Strong  enchantments,  strange  successions, 
Mysteries  of  old  and  new ; 

Back  to  knowledge  and  renewal, 

Faith  to  fashion  and  reveal, 
Take  me,  Mother,  —  in  compassion 

All  thy  hurt  ones  fain  to  heal. 

Back  to  wisdom  take  me.  Mother ; 

Comfort  me  with  kindred  hands ; 
Tell  me  tales  the  world's  forgetting. 

Till  my  spirit  understands. 


13 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Tell  me  how  some  sightless  impulse, 
Working  out  a  hidden  plan, 

God  for  kin  and  clay  for  fellow, 
Wakes  to  find  itself  a  man. 

Tell  me  how  the  life  of  mortal. 
Wavering  from  breath  to  breath, 

Like  a  web  of  scarlet  pattern 
Hurtles  from  the  loom  of  death. 

How  the  caged  bright  bird,  desire, 
Which  the  hands  of  God  deliver. 

Beats  aloft  to  drop  unheeded 
At  the  confines  of  forever : 


J4 


Kinship 

Faints  unheeded  for  a  season, 
Then  outwings  the  furthest  star, 

To  the  wisdom  and  the  stillness 
Where  thy  consummations  are. 


»5 


Origins 

Out  of  the  dreams  that  heap 
The  hollow  hand  of  sleep, — 
Out  of  the  dark  sublime, 
The  echouig  deeps  of  time,  — 
From  the  averted  Face 
Beyond  the  bournes  of  space. 
Into  the  sudden  sun 
We  journey,  one  by  one. 
Out  of  the  hidden  shade 
Wherein  desire  is  made,  — 
Out  of  the  pregnant  stir 
Where  death  and  hfe  confer,— 
i6 


Origins 

The  dark  and  mystic  heat 
Where  soul  and  matter  meet,  — 
The  enigmatic  Will,  — 
We  start,  and  then  are  still. 

Inexorably  decreed 
By  the  ancestral  deed, 
The  puppets  of  our  sires, 
We  work  out  blind  desires. 
And  for  our  sons  ordain, 
The  blessing  or  the  bane. 
In  ignorance  we  stand 
With  fate  on  either  hand, 
And  question  stars  and  earth 
Of  life,  and  death,  and  birth. 
With  wonder  in  our  eyes 
We  scan  the  kindred  skies. 
While  through  the  common  grass 
c  17 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Our  atoms  mix  and  pass. 
We  feel  the  sap  go  free 
When  spring  comes  to  the  tree  ; 
And  in  our  blood  is  stirred 
What  warms  the  brooding  bird. 
The  vital  fire  we  breathe 
That  bud  and  blade  bequeathe, 
And  strength  of  native  clay 
In  our  full  veins  hath  sway. 

But  in  the  urge  intense 
And  fellowship  of  sense, 
Suddenly  comes  a  word 
In  other  ages  heard. 
On  a  great  wind  our  souls 
Are  borne  to  unknown  goals, 
And  past  the  bournes  of  space 
To  the  unaverted  Face. 
i8 


An  April  Adoration 

Sang  the  sunrise  on  an  amber  morn  — 
"  Earth,  be  glad  !     An  April  day  is  born. 

"  Winter's  done,  and  April's  in  the  skies. 
Earth,  look  up  with  laughter  in  your  eyes  ! " 

Putting  off  her  dumb  dismay  of  snow, 
Earth  bade  all  her  unseen  children  grow. 

Then  the  sound  of  growing  in  the  air 
Rose  to  God  a  Uturgy  of  prayer ; 
19 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

And  the  thronged  succession  of  the  days 
Uttered  up  to  God  a  psalm  of  praise. 

Laughed  the  running  sap  in  every  vein. 
Laughed  the  running  flurries  of  warm  rain, 

Laughed  the  Ufe  in  every  wandering  root, 
Laughed  the  tingling  cells  of  bud  and  shoot. 

God  in  all  the  concord  of  their  mirth 
Heard  the  adoration-song  of  Earth. 


An  Oblation 

Behind  the  fateful  gleams 
Of  Life's  foretelling  streams 

Sat  the  Artificer 
Of  souls  and  deeds  and  dreams. 

Before  him  April  came ; 
And  on  her  mouth  his  name 

Breathed  like  a  flower 
And  lightened  like  a  flame. 


21 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

She  offered  him  a  world 

With  showers  of  joy  empearled; 

And  a  Spring  wind 
With  iris  wings  unfurled. 

She  offered  him  a  flight 
Of  birds  that  fare  by  night, 

Voyaging  northward 
By  the  ancestral  sight. 

She  offered  him  a  star 
From  the  blue  fields  afar, 

Where  unforgotten 
The  ghosts  of  gladness  are. 


A71  Oblatiofi 

And  every  root  and  seed 
Blind  stirring  in  the  mead 
Her  hands  held  up, — 
And  still  he  gave  no  heed. 

Then  from  a  secret  nook 
Beside  a  pasture  brook,  — 

A  place  of  leaves, — 
A  pink-lipped  bloom  she  took. 

Softly  before  his  feet. 
Oblation  small  and  sweet, 

She  laid  the  arbutus, 
And  found  the  offering  meet. 


23 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Over  the  speaking  tide, 
Where  Death  and  Birth  abide, 

He  stretched  his  palm. 
And  strewed  the  petals  wide ;  — 

And  o'er  the  ebbing  years. 
Dark  with  the  drift  of  tears, 

A  sunbeam  broke, 
And  summer  filled  the  spheres, 


24 


Resurrection 

Daffodil,  lily,  and  crocus, 

They  stir,  they  break  from  the  sod. 
They  are  glad  of  the  sun,  and  they  open 

Their  golden  hearts  to  God. 

They,  and  the  wilding  families, — 

Windflower,  violet,  may, — 
They  rise  from  the  long,  long  dark 

To  the  ecstasy  of  day. 


25 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

We,  scattering  troops  and  kindreds, 
From  out  of  the  stars  wind-blown 

To  this  wayside  corner  of  space, 
This  world  that  we  call  our  own, - 

We,  of  the  hedge-rows  of  Time, 
We,  too,  shall  divide  the  sod. 

Emerge  to  the  light,  and  blossom. 
With  our  hearts  held  up  to  God. 


26 


Afoot 

Comes  the  lure  of  green  things  growing, 
Comes  the  call  of  waters  flowing, — 

And  the  wayfarer  desire 
Moves  and  wakes  and  would  be  going. 

Hark  the  migrant  hosts  of  June 
Marching  nearer  noon  by  noon  ! 
Hark  the  gossip  of  the  grasses 
Bivouacked  beneath  the  moon ! 


27 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Hark  the  leaves  their  mirth  averring; 
Hark  the  buds  to  blossom  stirring; 
Hark  the  hushed,  exultant  haste 
Of  the  wind  and  world  conferring ! 

Hark  the  sharp,  insistent  cry 
Where  the  hawk  patrols  the  sky] 

Hark  the  flapping,  as  of  banners, 
Where  the  heron  triumphs  by  ! 

Empire  in  the  coasts  of  bloom 
Humming  cohorts  now  resume, — 

And  desire  is  forth  to  follow 
Many  a  vagabond  perfume. 


28 


Afoot 

Long  the  quest  and  far  the  ending 
Where  my  wayfarer  is  wending, — 

When  desire  is  once  afoot, 
Doom  behind  and  dream  attending ! 

Shuttle-cock  of  indecision, 
Sport  of  chance's  bhnd  derision, 

Yet  he  may  not  fail  nor  tire 
Till  his  eyes  shall  win  the  Vision. 

In  his  ears  the  phantom  chime 
Of  incommunicable  rhyme, 

He  shall  chase  the  fleeting  camp-fires 
Of  the  Bedouins  of  Time. 


29 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Farer  by  uncharted  ways, 

Dumb  as  Death  to  plaint  or  praise, 

Unreturning  he  shall  journey, 
Fellow  to  the  nights  and  days  :  — 

Till  upon  the  outer  bar 

Stilled  the  moaning  currents  are, — 

Till  the  flame  achieves  the  zenith, — 
Till  the  moth  attains  the  star, — 

Till,  through  laughter  and  through  tears. 
Fair  the  final  peace  appears, 

And  about  the  watered  pastures 
Sink  to  sleep  the  nomad  years  ! 


30 


Where  the  Cattle  come  to  Drink 

At  evening,  where  the  cattle  come  to  drink, 
Cool  are  the  long  marsh-grasses,  dewy  cool 
The  alder  thickets,  and  the  shallow  pool, 

And  the  brown  clay  about  the  trodden  brink. 

The  pensive  afterthoughts  of  sundown  sink 
Over  the  patient  acres  given  to  peace ; 
The  homely  cries  and  farmstead  noises  cease, 

And  the  worn  day  relaxes,  link  by  link. 

A  lesson  that  the  open  heart  may  read 
Breathes  in  this  mild  benignity  of  air, 
These  dear,  famihar  savours  of  the  soil,  — 

A  lesson  of  the  calm  of  humble  creed, 
The  simple  dignity  of  common  toil, 
And  the  plain  wisdom  of  unspoken  prayer. 
31 


The  Heal-All 

Dear  blossom  of  the  wayside  kin, 
Whose  homely,  wholesome  name 

Tells  of  a  potency  within 
To  win  thee  country  fame  ! 

The  sterile  hillocks  are  thy  home, 

Beside  the  windy  path ; 
The  sky,  a  pale  and  lonely  dome, 

Is  all  thy  vision  hath. 


32 


The  Heal- All 

Thy  unobtrusive  purple  face 

Amid  the  meagre  grass 
Greets  me  with  long-remembered  grace, 

And  cheers  me  as  I  pass. 

And  I,  outworn  by  petty  care, 

And  vexed  with  trivial  wrong, 
I  heed  thy  brave  and  joyous  air 

Until  my  heart  grows  strong. 

A  lesson  from  the  Power  I  crave 

That  moves  in  me  and  thee, 
That  makes  thee  modest,  calm,  and  brave, 

Me  restless  as  the  sea. 


33 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Thy  simple  wisdom  I  would  gain, — 
To  heal  the  hurt  Life  brings, 

With  kindly  cheer,  and  faith  in  pain. 
And  joy  of  common  things. 


34 


Recompense 

To  Beauty  and  to  Truth  I  heaped 

My  sacrificial  fires. 
I  fed  them  hot  with  selfish  thoughts 

And  many  proud  desires. 

I  stripped  my  days  of  dear  delights 
To  cast  them  in  the  flame, 

Till  life  seemed  naked  as  a  rock, 
And  pleasure  but  a  name. 


35 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

And  still  I  sorrowed  patiently, 
And  waited  day  and  night, 

Expecting  Truth  from  very  far 
And  Beauty  from  her  height. 

Then  laughter  ran  among  the  stars ; 

And  this  I  heard  them  tell : 
"  Beside  his  threshold  is  the  shrine 

Where  Truth  and  Beauty  dwell ! " 


36 


An  Epitaph  for  a  Husbandman 

He  who  would  start  and  rise 
Before  the  crowing  cocks  — 

No  more  he  lifts  his  eyes, 
Whoever  knocks. 

He  who  before  the  stars 

Would  call  the  cattle  home, — 

They  wait  about  the  bars 
For  him  to  come. 


37 


TJie  Book  of  the  Native 

Him  at  whose  hearty  calls 
The  farmstead  woke  again 

The  horses  in  their  stalls 
Expect  in  vain. 

Busy,  and  blithe,  and  bold, 

He  laboured  for  the  morrow, — 

The  plough  his  hands  would  hold 
Rusts  in  the  furrow. 

His. fields  he  had  to  leave, 
His  orchards  cool  and  dim ; 

The  clods  he  used  to  cleave 
Now  cover  him. 


38 


An  Epitaph  for  a  Husba?idman 

But  the  green,  growing  things 
Lean  kindly  to  his  sleep, — 

White  roots  and  wandering  strings, 
Closer  they  creep. 

Because  he  loved  them  long 
And  with  them  bore  his  part, 

Tenderly  now  they  throng 
About  his  heart. 


39 


The  Little  Field  of  Peace 

By  the  long  wash  of  his  ancestral  sea 

He  sleeps  how  quietly  ! 
How  quiet  the  unlifting  eyelids  lie 

Under  this  tranquil  sky  ! 
The  little  busy  hands  and  restless  feet 

Here  find  that  rest  is  sweet ; 
For  sweetly,  from  the  hands  grown  tired  of  play, 

The  child-world  slips  away, 
With  its  confusion  of  forgotten  toys 

And  kind,  famiUar  noise. 

Not  lonely  does  he  lie  in  his  last  bed, 
For  love  o'erbroods  his  head. 
40 


The  Little  Field  of  Peace 

Kindly  to  him  the  comrade  grasses  lean 

Their  fellowship  of  green. 
The  wilding  meadow  companies  give  heed, — 

Brave  tansy,  and  the  weed 
That  on  the  dyke-top  lifts  its  dauntless  stalk,  — 

Around  his  couch  they  talk. 
The  shadows  of  his  oak-tree  flit  and  play 

Above  his  dreams  all  day. 
The  wind,  that  was  his  playmate  on  the  hills, 

His  sleep  with  music  fills. 

Here  in  this  tender  acre  by  the  tide 

His  vanished  kin  abide. 
Ah  !   what  compassionate  care  for  him  they  keep, 

Too  soon  returned  to  sleep  ! 
They  watch  him  in  this  little  field  of  peace 

Where  they  have  found  release. 


41 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Not  as  a  stranger  or  alone  he  went 

Unto  his  long  content ; 
But  kissed  to  sleep  and  comforted  lies  he 

By  his  ancestral  sea. 


+2 


Renewal 

Comrade  of  the  whirling  planets, 
Mother  of  the  leaves  and  rain, 

Make  me  joyous  as  thy  birds  are, 
Let  me  be  thy  child  again. 

Show  me  all  the  troops  of  heaven 
Tethered  in  a  sphere  of  dew, — 

All  the  dear  familiar  marvels 
Old,  child-hearted  singers  knew. 


43 


Renewal 

Let  me  laugh  with  children's  laughter, 
Breathe  with  herb  and  blade  and  tree, 

Learn  again  forgotten  lessons 
Of  thy  grave  simplicity. 

Take  me  back  to  dream  and  vision 
From  the  prison-house  of  pain, 

Back  to  fellowship  with  wonder  — 
Mother,  take  me  home  again  1 


44 


The   Unsleeping 

I  soothe  to  unimagined  sleep 
The  sunless  bases  of  the  deep. 
And  then  I  stir  the  aching  tide 
That  gropes  in  its  reluctant  side. 

I  heave  aloft  the  smoking  hill ; 
To  silent  peace  its  throes  I  still. 
But  ever  at  its  heart  of  fire 
I  lurk,  an  unassuaged  desire. 


45 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

I  wrap  me  in  the  sightless  germ 
An  instant  or  an  endless  term ; 
And  still  its  atoms  are  my  care, 
Dispersed  in  ashes  or  in  air. 

I  hush  the  comets  one  by  one 
To  sleep  for  ages  in  the  sun ; 
The  sun  resumes  before  my  face 
His  circuit  of  the  shores  of  space. 

The  mount,  the  star,  the  germ,  the  deep, 
They  all  shall  wake,  they  all  shall  sleep. 
Time,  like  a  flurry  of  wild  rain. 
Shall  drift  across  the  darkened  pane. 


46 


TJie  Unsleeping 

Space,  in  the  dim  predestined  hour, 
Shall  crumble  like  a  ruined  tower. 
I  only,  with  unfaltering  eye, 
Shall  watch  the  dreams  of  God  go  by. 


47 


Recessional 

Now  along  the  solemn  heights 
Fade  the  Autumn's  altar-lights ; 

Down  the  great  earth's  glimmering  chancel 
Glide  the  days  and  nights. 

Little  kindred  of  the  grass, 
Like  a  shadow  in  a  glass 

Falls  the  dark  and  falls  the  stillness ; 
We  must  rise  and  pass. 


48 


Recessional 

We  must  rise  and  follow,  wending 
Where  the  nights  and  days  have  ending,- 

Pass  in  order  pale  and  slow 
Unto  sleep  extending. 

Little  brothers  of  the  clod, 
Soul  of  fire  and  seed  of  sod. 

We  must  fare  into  the  silence 
At  the  knees  of  God. 

Little  comrades  of  the  sky 
Wing  to  wing  we  wander  by, 

Going,  going,  going,  going, 
Softly  as  a  sigh. 


49 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Hark,  the  moving  shapes  confer, 
Globe  of  dew  and  gossamer, 

Fading  and  ephemeral  spirits 
In  the  dusk  astir. 

Moth  and  blossom,  blade  and  bee, 
Worlds  must  go  as  well  as  we, 

In  the  long  procession  joining 
Mount,  and  star,  and  sea. 

Toward  the  shadowy  brink  we  climb 
Where  the  round  year  rolls  sublime. 

Rolls,  and  drops,  and  falls  forever 
In  the  vast  of  time  ; 


5° 


Recessional 

Like  a  plummet  plunging  deep 
Past  the  utmost  reach  of  sleep, 

Till  remembrance  has  no  longer 
Care  to  laugh  or  weep. 


51 


Earth's  Complines 

Before  the  feet  of  the  dew 
There  came  a  call  I  knew, 

Luring  me  into  the  garden 
Where  the  tall  white  lilies  grew. 

I  stood  in  the  dusk  between 
The  companies  of  green, 

O'er  whose  aerial  ranks 
The  lilies  rose  serene. 


52 


EartJis  Complines 

And  the  breathing  air  was  stirred 
By  an  unremembered  word, 
Soft,  incommunicable  — 
And  wings  not  of  a  bird. 

I  heard  the  spent  blooms  sighing, 
The  expectant  buds  replying; 

I  felt  the  hfe  of  the  leaves, 
Ephemeral,  yet  undying. 

The  spirits  of  earth  were  there, 
Thronging  the  shadowed  air, 
Serving  among  the  lilies, 
In  an  ecstasy  of  prayer. 


53 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Their  speech  I  could  not  tell; 
But  the  sap  in  each  green  cell, 

And  the  pure  initiate  petals, 
They  knew  that  language  well. 

I  felt  the  soul  of  the  trees  — 
Of  the  white,  eternal  seas  — 

Of  the  flickering  bats  and  night-moths 
And  my  own  soul  kin  to  these. 

And  a  spell  came  out  of  space 
From  the  light  of  its  starry  place, 

And  I  saw  in  the  deep  of  my  heart 
The  image  of  God's  face. 


54 


Two  Spheres 

While  eager  angels  watched  in  awe, 
God  fashioned  with  his  hands 

Two  shining  spheres  to  work  his  law, 
And  carry  his  commands. 

With  patient  art  he  shaped  them  true, 

With  calm,  untiring  care  ; 
And  none  of  those  bright  watchers  knew 

Which  one  to  call  most  fair. 


55 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

He  dropped  one  lightly  down  to  earth 
Amid  the  morning's  blue  — 

And  on  a  gossamer  had  birth 
A  bead  of  blinding  dew. 

It  flamed  across  the  hollow  field, 

On  tiptoe  to  depart, 
Outvied  Arcturus,  and  revealed 

All  heaven  in  its  heart. 

He  tossed  the  other  into  space 

(As  children  toss  a  ball) 
To  swing  forever  in  its  place 

With  equal  rise  and  fall ; 


56 


Two  Spheres 

To  flame  through  the  ethereal  dark, 
Among  its  brother  spheres, 

An  orbit  too  immense  to  mark 
The  Httle  tide  of  years. 


57 


The  Stillness  of  the  Frost 

Out  of  the  frost-white  wood  comes  winnowing  through 
No  wing ;  no  homely  call  or  cry  is  heard. 
Even  the  hope  of  Hfe  seems  far  deferred. 
The  hard  hills  ache  beneath  their  spectral  hue. 

A  dove-gray  cloud,  tender  as  tears  or  dew, 

From  one  lone  hearth  exhaling,  hangs  unstirred, 
Like  the  poised  ghost  of  some  unnamed  great  bird 
In  the  ineffable  pallor  of  the  blue. 

Such,  I  must  think,  even  at  the  dawn  of  Time, 
Was  thy  white  hush,  O  world,  when  thou  lay'st  cold, 
Unwaked  to  love,  new  from  the  Maker's  word, 

And  the  spheres,  watching,  stilled  their  high  accord. 
To  marvel  at  perfection  in  thy  mould, 
The  grace  of  thine  austerity  sublime  ! 
58 


A  Child's  Prayer  at  Evening 

(^Domine,  cui  sunt  Pleiades  curae) 

Father,  who  keepest 

The  stars  in  Thy  care, 
Me,  too,  Thy  Httle  one, 

Childish  in  prayer. 
Keep,  as  Thou  keepest 

The  soft  night  through, 
Thy  long,  white  lilies 

Asleep  in  Thy  dew. 


59 


; 


II 

Lyrics 


'he  Frosted  Pane 

One  night  came  Winter  noiselessly,  and  leaned 

Against  my  window-pane. 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  his  heart  convened 

The  ghosts  of  all  his  slain. 

Leaves,  and  ephemera,  and  stars  of  earth, 

And  fugitives  of  grass,  — 
White  spirits  loosed  from  bonds  of  mortal  birth, 

He  drew  them  on  the  glass. 


63 


The  Brook  in  February 

A  snowy  path  for  squirrel  and  fox, 
It  winds  between  the  wintry  firs. 

Snow-muffled  are  its  iron  rocks, 
And  o'er  its  stillness  nothing  stirs. 

But  low,  bend  low  a  listening  ear ! 

Beneath  the  mask  of  moveless  white 
A  babbling  whisper  you  shall  hear 

Of  birds  and  blossoms,  leaves  and  light. 


64 


Besfae  the  Winter  Sea 

As  one  who  sJeeps,  and  hears  across  his  dream 

The  cry  of  battles  ended  long  ago, 

Inland  I  hear  the  calling  of  the  sea. 

I  hear  its  hollow  voices,  though  between 

My  wind-worn  dwelling  and  thy  wave-worn  strand 

How  many  miles,  how  many  mountains  are  ! 

And  thou  beside  the  winter  sea  alone 

Art  walking,  with  thy  cloak  about  thy  face. 

Bleak,  bleak  the  tide,  and  evening  coming  on ; 

And  gray  the  pale,  pale  light  that  wans  thy  face. 

Solemnly  breaks  the  long  wave  at  thy  feet ; 

And  sullenly  in  patches  clings  the  snow 

Upon  the  low,  red  rocks  worn  round  with  years. 

F  65 


The  Book  of  the '  Native 
< 

I  see  thine  eyes,  I  see  their  gra  e  desire, 

Unsatisfied  and  lonely  as  the  sea'r^  — 

Yet  how  unlike  the  wintry  sea's  despair  ! 

For  could  my  feet  but  follow  thine,  my  hands 

But  reach  for  thy  warm  hands  beneath  thy  cloak, 

What  summer  joy  would  lighten  in  thy  face, 

What  sunshine  warm  thine  eyes,  and  thy  sad  mouth 

Break  to  a  dewy  rose,  and  laugh  on  mine  ! 


66 


/ 

/ 

/ 

The  Ouest  of  the  Arbutus 


For  days  the  drench  of  noiseless  rains, 
Then  sunshine  on  the  vacant  plains, 
And  April  with  her  blind  desire 
A  vagrant  in  my  veins  ! 

Because  the  tardy  gods  grew  kind, 
Unrest  and  care  were  cast  behind ; 
I  took  a  day,  and  found  the  world 
Was  fashioned  to  my  mind. 


67 


The  Book  of  the  JSfative 

The  swelling  sap  that  thr  iled  the  wood 
Was  cousin  to  my  eager  blood ; 
I  caught  the  stir  of  waking'  roots, 
And  knew  that  life  was  gocd. 

But  something  in  the  odors  fleet, 
And  in  the  sap's  suggestion  sweet, 
Was  lacking,  —  one  thing  everywhere 
To  make  the  spring  complete. 

At  length  within  a  leafy  nest. 

Where  spring's  persuasions  pleaded  best, 

I  found  a  pale,  reluctant  flower. 

The  purpose  of  my  quest. 


68 


The  QuifSi  of  the  Arbutus 

i 

And  then  the  world's  expectancy 
Grew  clear:    I  knew  its  need  to  be 
Not  this  dear  flower,  but  one  dear  hand 
To  pluck  "ihe  flower  with  me. 

( 


69 


The  Jonquil 

Through  its  brown  and  withered  bulb 
How  the  white  germ  felt  the  sun 

In  the  dark  mould  gently  stirring 
His  Spring  children  one  by  one  ! 

Thrilled  with  heat,  it  split  the  husk, 
Shot  a  green  blade  up  to  light. 

And  unfurled  its  orange  petals 
In  the  old  Enchanter's  sight. 


70 


le  Jo7iquil 

One  step  more  and  it  had  floated 

On  the  palpitating  noon 
Winged  a/'.d  free,  a  butterfly 

Soaring'  from  the  rent  cocoon. 

But  it  could  not  leave  its  earth, 
And  the  May-dew's  tender  tears,  — 

So  it  wavers  there  forever 

'Twixt  the  green  and  azure  spheres. 


7« 


The  Trout  Brook 

The  airs  that  blew  from  the  brink  of  day 
Were  fresh  and  wet  with  the  breath  of  May. 
I  heard  the  babble  of  brown  brooks  faUing, 
And  golden-wings  in  the  woodside  calling. 

Big  drops  hung  from  the  sparkling  eaves ; 
And  through  the  screen  of  the  thin  young  leaves 
A  glint  of  ripples,  a  whirl  of  foam, 
Lured  and  beckoned  me  out  from  home. 


72 


The   Trout  Brook 

My  feet  grew  eager,  my  eyes  grew  wide, 
And  I  was  off  by  the  brown  brook's  side. 
Down  in  the  swamp-bottom,  cool  and  dim, 
I  cut  me  an  alder  sapling  slim. 

With  nimble  fingers  I  tied  my  line, 
Clear  as  a  sunbeam,  strong  and  fine. 
My  fly  was  a  tiny  glittering  thing, 
With  tinselled  body  and  partridge  wing. 

With  noiseless  steps  I  threaded  the  wood, 
Glad  of  the  sun-pierced  solitude. 
Chattered  the  kingfisher,  fierce  and  shy. 
As  like  a  shadow  I  drifted  by. 


73 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Lurked  in  their  watery  lairs  the  trout, 
But,  silver  and  scarlet,  I  lured  them  out. 
Wary  were  they,  but  warier  still 
My  cunning  wrist  and  my  cist  of  skill, 

I  whipped  the  red  pools  under  the  beeches; 
I  whipped  the  yellow  and  dancing  reaches. 
The  purple  eddy,  smooth  Uke  oil. 
And  the  tail  of  the  rapid  yielded  spoil. 

So  all  day  long,  till  the  day  was  done, 
I  followed  the  stream,  I  followed  the  sun. 
Then  homeward  over  the  ridge  I  went. 
The  wandering  heart  of  me  well  content. 


74 


A  Wake-up  Song 

Sun's  up ;  wind's  up  !     Wake  up,  dearies  ! 

Leave  your  coverlets  white  and  downy. 
June's  come  into  the  world  this  morning. 

Wake  up,  Golden  Head  !     Wake  up,  Brownie  ! 

Dew  on  the  meadow-grass,  waves  on  the  water, 
Robins  in  the  rowan-tree  wondering  about  you  ! 

Don't  keep  the  buttercups  so  long  waiting. 
Don't  keep  the  bobolinks  singing  without  you. 


75 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Wake  up,  Golden  Head  !     Wake  up,  Brownie  ! 

Cat-bird  wants  you  in  the  garden  soon. 
You  and  I,  butterflies,  bobolinks,  and  clover, 

We've  a  lot  to  do  on  the  first  of  June. 


76 


Butterflies 

Once  in  a  garden,  when  the  thrush's  song, 
Pealing  at  morn,  made  holy  all  the  air, 

Till  earth  was  healed  of  many  an  ancient  wrong. 
And  life  appeared  another  name  for  prayer, 

Rose  suddenly  a  swarm  of  butterflies. 

On  wings  of  white  and  gold  and  azure  fire ; 

And   one    said,   "These   are   flowers   that    seek   the 
skies, 
Loosed  by  the  spell  of  their  supreme  desire." 


77 


July 

I  am  for  the  open  meadows, 
Open  meadows  full  of  sun, 

Where  the  hot  bee  hugs  the  clover, 
The  hot  breezes  drop  and  run. 

I  am  for  the  uncut  hayfields 
Open  to  the  cloudless  blue, — 

For  the  wide  unshadowed  acres 
Where  the  summer's  pomps  renew; 


78 


July 

Where  the  grass-tops  gather  purple, 
Where  the  ox-eye  daisies  thrive, 

And  the  mendicants  of  summer 
Laugh  to  feel  themselves  alive  ; 

Where  the  hot  scent  steams  and  quivers, 
Where  the  hot  saps  thrill  and  stir, 

Where  in  leaf-cells'  green  pavilions 
Quaint  artificers  confer; 

Where  the  bobolinks  are  merry, 
Where  the  beetles  bask  and  gleam, 

Where  above  the  powdered  blossoms 
Powdered  moth-wings  poise  and  dream ; 


79 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Where  the  bead-eyed  mice  adventure 
In  the  grass-roots  green  and  dun. 

Life  is  good  and  love  is  eager 
In  the  playground  of  the  sun  ! 


80 


An  Ausfust  Wood   Road 

o 

When  the  partridge  coveys  fly 
In  the  birch-tops  cool  and  high  ; 

When  the  dry  cicadas  twang 
Where  the  purphng  fir-cones  hang ; 

When  the  bunch-berries  emboss  — 
Scarlet  beads  —  the  roadside  moss  : 

Brown  with  shadows,  bright  with  sun, 
All  day  long  till  day  is  done 


8i 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Sleeps  in  murmuring  solitude 

The  worn  old  road  that  threads  the  wood. 

In  its  deep  cup  —  grassy,  cool  — 
Sleeps  the  little  roadside  pool ; 

Sleeps  the  butterfly  on  the  weed, 
Sleeps  the  drifted  thistle-seed. 

Like  a  great  and  blazing  gem, 
Basks  the  beetle  on  the  stem. 

Up  and  down  the  shining  rays 
Dancing  midges  weave  their  maze. 

High  among  the  moveless  boughs, 
Drunk  with  day,  the  night-hawks  drowse. 


82 


An  August    Wood  Road 

Far  up,  unfathomably  blue, 
August's  heaven  vibrates  through. 

The  old  road  leads  to  all  things  good ; 
The  year's  at  full,  and  time's  at  flood, 


83 


Apple  Song 

O  the  sun  has  kissed  the  apples, 
Kissed  the  apples; 

And  the  apples,  hanging  mellow, 
Red  and  yellow, 

All  down  the  orchard  seen 

Make  a  glory  in  the  green. 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  apples, 
Kissed  the  apples  ; 

And  the  hollow  barrels  wait 
By  the  gate. 

The  cider-presses  drip 

With  nectar  for  the  lip. 
84 


Apple  Song 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  apples, 
Kissed  the  apples ; 

And  the  yellow  miles  of  grain 
Forget  the  rain. 

The  happy  gardens  yet 

The  winter's  blight  forget. 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  apples, 
Kissed  the  apples ; 

O'er  the  marsh  the  cattle  spread, 
White  and  red. 

The  sky  is  all  as  blue 

As  a  gentian  in  the  dew. 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  apples, 
Kissed  the  apples ; 

And  the  maples  are  ablaze 
Through  the  haze. 
85 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

The  crickets  in  their  mirth 
Fife  the  fruiting  song  of  earth. 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  apples, 
Kissed  the  apples ; 

Now  with  flocking  call  and  stir 
Birds  confer, 

As  if  their  hearts  were  crest 

By  a  fear  of  coming  frost. 

O  the  sun  has  kissed  the  apples, 
Kissed  the  apples ; 

And  the  harvest  air  is  sweet 
On  the  wheat. 

Delight  is  not  for  long, — 

Give  us  laughter,  give  us  song  ! 


86 


The  Cricket 

Oh,  to  be  a  cricket, 

That's  the  thing  ! 
To  scurry  in  the  grass 

And  to  have  one's  fling  ! 
And  it's  oh,  to  be  a  cricket 
In  the  warm  thistle-thicket, 

Where  the  sun-winds  pass, 

Winds  a-wing. 
And  the  bumble-bees  hang  humming. 

Hum  and  swing, 
And  the  honey-drops  are  coming  ! 


87 


TJie  Book  of  the  Native 

It's  to  be  a  summer  rover, 

That  can  see  a  sweet,  and  pick  it 
With  the  sting  ! 
Never  mind  the  sting  ! 

And  it's  oh,  to  be  a  cricket 

In  the  clover  ! 

A  gay  summer  rover 
In  the  warm  thistle-thicket. 
Where  the  honey-drops  are  coming, 
Where  the  bumble-bees  hang  humming- 

That's  the  thing  ! 


88 


The  Train  amons:  the  Hills 


o 


Vast,  unrevealed,  in  silence  and  the  night 

Brooding,  the  ancient  hills  commune  with  sleep. 
Inviolate  the  solemn  valleys  keep 

Their  contemplation.     Soon  from  height  to  height 

Steals  a  red  finger  of  mysterious  hght, 
And  lion- footed  through  the  forests  creep 
Strange  mutterings  ;  till  suddenly,  with  sweep 

And  shattering  thunder  of  resistless  flight 

And  crash  of  routed  echoes,  roars  to  view, 

Down  the  long  mountain  gorge  the  Night  Express 
Freighted  with  fears  and  tears  and  happiness.  .  .  . 

The  dread  form  passes ;  silence  falls  anew. 

And  lo  !  I  have  beheld  the  thronged,  blind  world 
To  goals  unseen  from  God's  hand  onward  hurled. 


The  Lone  Wharf 

The  long  tides  sweep 

Around  its  sleep, 
The  long  red  tides  of  Tantramar. 

Around  its  dream 

They  hiss  and  stream, 
Sad  for  the  ships  that  have  sailed  afar. 

How  many  lips 

Have  lost  their  bloom, 
Hotv  many  ships 

Gone  down  to  gloom, 
Since  keel  and  sail 

Have  fled  out  from  me 
Over  the  thutider  and  strain  of  the  sea  ! 
90 


The  Lone   Wharf 

Its  kale-dark  sides 

Throb  in  the  tides ; 
The  long  winds  over  it  spin  and  hum ; 

Its  timbers  ache 

For  memory's  sake, 
And  the  throngs  that  never  again  will  come. 

How  niajiy  lips 

Have  lost  their  bloom, 
How  majiy  ships 

Gone  down  to  gloom, 
Since  keel  aiid  sail 

Have  fled  out  from  ?ne 
Over  the  thunder  and  strain  of  the  sea  I 


91 


The  Witches'  Flight 

Come,  Red  Mouse, 

And  come,  Black  Cat ! 
Oh,  see  what  the  goat 

And  the  toad  are  at  ! 
Oh,  see  them  where 
They  rise  in  the  air. 
And  wheel  and  dance 

With  the  whirling  bat ! 

We  rise,  we  rise 

On  the  smoking  air; 
And  the  withered  breast 

Grows  young  and  fair  : 
92 


The  Witches'  Flight 

And  the  eyes  grow  bright 
With  alluring  light, 
And  the  fierce  mouth  softens 
With  love's  soft  prayer. 

Come,  White  Sisters, 
Naked  of  limb  ! 
The  horned  moon  reddens  ; 

The  stars  grow  dim  ; 
The  crags  in  the  gloom 
Of  our  caldron's  fume 
Shudder  and  topple 

And  reel  and  swim. 

We  mount,  we  mount 

Till  the  moon  seems  nigh. 
Our  rout  possesses 

The  middle  sky. 
93 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

With  strange  embraces, 
And  maddened  faces, 
And  streaming  tresses, 
We  twist  and  fly. 

Come,  White  Sisters, 
And  four-foot  kin. 

For  the  horned  moon  sinks 
And  the  reek  grows  thin, 

And  brief  is  the  night 

Of  our  dehght. 

And  brief  the  span 
Of  our  secret  sin. 


94 


Three  Good  Things 


Bona  in  terrd.  tria  invent, 
Ludum,  venirem,  vinum. 

Three  good  things  I've  tha?iked  the  Gods  for,- 

Play,  and  love,  and  wine  / 
So  by  Tiber  sang  my  poet ;  — 

Would  the  song  were  mine  ! 

Yet  methinks  I  would  not  turn  it 

Just  the  Roman  way, 
But  for  ludum  say  read  libros,  — 

Books  are  more  than  play  !        / 


95 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Through  the  togaed  Latin  trembles 

Laughter  half  divine ; 
Flash  the  dice  beside  the  column ; 

Rosy  flagons  shine. 

I,  for  gleams  of  yellow  Tiber, 

Down  my  garden  way 
See  a  water  blue  and  beaming 

In  the  northern  day. 

Ovid,  Meleager,  Omar, 

In  the  orchard  shade. 
With  a  jug  that  gurgles  gently, 

And  a  white-armed  maid. 


96 


Three  Good  Things 

Three  good  things  I  thank  the  Gods  for, 
Books,  and  love,  and  wine  : 

So,  my  poet,  singing  later. 

Would  have  run  your  Hne  ! 


97 


Trysting  Song 

Dear  !  Dear  ! 
As  the  night  draws  nigh  draw  near. 
The  world's  forgotten ; 

Work  is  done  ; 
The  hour  for  loving 

Is  begun. 

Sweet  !  Sweet  ! 
It  is  love-time  when  we  meet. 
The  hush  of  desire 

Falls  with  the  dew, 
And  all  the  evening 
Turns  to  you. 
98 


Trysting  Song 

Child  !  Child  ! 
With  the  warm  heart  wise  and  wild. 
My  spirit  trembles 

Under  your  hand ; 
You  look  in  my  eyes 

And  understand. 

Mine  !  Mine  ! 
Mistress  of  mood  divine. 
What  lore  of  the  ages 

Bids  you  know 
The  heart  of  a  man 
Can  love  you  so? 


99 


Love's  Translator 

When  the  white  moon  divides  the  mist, 

My  longing  eyes  beheve 
'Tis  the  white  arm  my  lips  have  kissed 

Flashing  from  thy  sleeve. 

And  when  the  tall  white  lily  sways 

Upon  her  queenly  stalk, 
Thy  white  form  fills  my  dreaming  gaze 

Down  the  garden  walk. 


Love's   Translator 

When,  rich  with  rose,  a  wandering  air 
Breathes  up  the  leafy  place, 

It  seems  to  me  thy  perfumed  hair 
Blown  across  my  face. 

And  when  the  thrush's  golden  note 
Across  the  gloom  is  heard, 

I  think  'tis  thy  impassioned  throat 
Uttering  one  sweet  word. 

And  when  the  scarlet  poppy-bud 
Breaks,  breathing  of  the  south, 

A  sudden  warmth  awakes  my  blood 
Thinking  of  thy  mouth. 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

And  when  that  dove's  wing  dips  in  flight 

Above  the  dreaming  land, 
I  see  some  dear,  remembered,  white 

Gesture  of  thy  hand. 

Wonder  and  love  upon  me  wait 

In  service  fair,  when  I 
Into  thy  sweetness  thus  translate 

Earth  and  air  and  sky. 


Ebb 

The  tide  goes  out,  the  tide  goes  out ;   once  more 
The  empty  day  goes  down  the  empty  shore. 

The  tide  goes  out ;   the  wharves  deserted  He 
Under  the  empty  soUtude  of  sky. 

The  tide  goes  out ;  the  dwindling  channels  ache 
With  the  old  hunger,  with  the  old  heartbreak. 

The  tide  goes  out ;   the  lonely  wastes  of  sand 
Implore  the  benediction  of  thy  hand. 

The  tide  goes  out,  goes  out ;  the  stranded  ships 
Desire  the  sea,  —  and  I  desire  thy  lips. 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

The  tide  goes  out,  the  tide  goes  out ;   the  sun 
Relumes  the  hills  of  longing  one  by  one. 

The  tide  goes  out,  goes  out ;  and  goes  my  heart 
On  the  long  quest  that  ends  but  where  thou  art. 


104 


Twilight  on  Sixth  Avenue 

Over  the  tops  of  the  houses 

TwiUght  and  sunset  meet. 
The  green,  diaphanous  dusk 

Sinks  to  the  eager  street. 

Astray  in  the  tangle  of  roofs 

Wanders  a  wind  of  June. 
The  dial  shines  in  the  clock-tower 

Like  the  face  of  a  strange-scrawled  moon. 


105 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

The  narrowing  lines  of  the  houses 

Palely  begin  to  gleam, 
And  the  hurrying  crowds  fade  softly 

Like  an  army  in  a  dream. 

Above  the  vanishing  faces 

A  phantom  train  flares-  on 
With  a  voice  that  shakes  the  shadows, - 

Diminishes,  and  is  gone. 

And  I  walk  with  the  journeying  throng 

In  such  a  solitude 
As  where  a  lonely  ocean 

Washes  a  lonely  wood. 


io6 


Mothers 

Mary,  when  the  childing  pain 
Made  thy  patient  eyes  grow  dim, 

Of  that  anguish  wert  thou  fain, 
Wert  thou  glad  because  of  Him? 

How  thou  siTiiledst  in  thy  woe 

Every  mother's  heart  doth  know. 

Mary,  when  the  helpless  Child 

Nursed  and  slumbered  at  thy  breast, 

In  the  rosy  form  and  mild 

Didst  thou  see  the  Heavenly  Guest? 

Such  a  guest  from  Paradise 

Gladdens  every  mother's  eyes. 
107 


Up  and  Away  in  the  Morning 

Tide's  at  full ;  the  wave  breaks  white 
(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning)  ; 

Blue  is  the  blown  grass,  red  is  the  height; 

Washed  with  the  sun  the  sail  shines  white 
(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning). 

Wide  is  the  world  in  the  laughing  sun 
(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning). 
Work's  to  be  done  and  wealth's  to  be  won 
Ere  a  man  turns  home  with  the  homing  sun 
(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning). 


jo8 


up  and  Away  in  the  Morning 

Long  is  the  heart's  hope,  long  as  the  day 

(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning). 
Heart  has  its  will  and  hand  has  its  way 
Till  the  world  rolls  over  and  ends  the  day 
(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning). 

It's  home  that  we  toil  for  all  day  long 
(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning). 
Hand  on  the  line  and  heart  in  the  song. 
The  labor  of  love  will  not  seem  long 
(Oh,  up  and  away  in  the  morning). 


109 


Home,  Home  in  the  Evening 

When  the  crows  fly  in  from  sea 

(Oh,  home,  home  in  the  evening), 
My  love  in  his  boat  comes  back  to  me, 
Over  the  tumbling  leagues  of  sea 
(Oh,  home,  home  in  the  evening). 

And  when  the  sun  drops  over  the  hill 
(Oh,  home,  home  in  the  evening), 
My  happy  eyes  they  take  their  fill 
Of  watching  my  love  as  he  climbs  the  hill 
(Oh,  home,  home  in  the  evening). 


Home,  Home  in  the  Evening 

And  when  the  dew  foils  over  the  land 
(Oh,  home,  home  in  the  evening). 
I  hold  in  my  hand  his  dearest  hand, 
The  happiest  woman  in  all  the  land 
(Oh,  home,  home  in  the  evening). 


All  day  she  sang  by  the  cottage  door 
(Oh,  home,  home  in  the  evening). 
At  sundown  came  his  boat  to  the  shore  — 
But  he  to  the  hearthside  comes  no  more, 
Home,  home  in  the  evening. 


Sleepy  Man 

When  the  Sleepy  Man  comes  with  the  dust  on  his 
eyes 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary  !) 
He  shuts  up  the  earth,  and  he  opens  the  skies. 

(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie  !) 

He  smiles  through  his  fingers,  and  shuts  up  the  sun; 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary  !) 
The  stars  that  he  loves  he  lets  out  one  by  one. 

(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie !) 


112 


Sleepy  Man 

He  comes  from  the  castles  of  Drowsy-boy  Town ; 

(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary  !) 
At  the  touch  of  his  hand  the  tired  eyelids  fall  down. 

(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie  !) 

He  comes  with  a  murmur  of  dream  in  his  wings 
(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary  !) 

And  whispers  of  mermaids  and  wonderful  things. 
(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie  !) 

Then  the  top  is  a  burden,  the  bugle  a  bane 
(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary  !) 

When  one  would  be  faring  down  Dream-a-way  Lane, 
(So   hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie  !) 


113 


TJie  Book  of  the  Native 

When  one  would  be  wending  in  Lullaby  Wherry 
(Oh,  weary,  my  Dearie,  so  weary  !) 

To  Sleepy  Man's  Castle  by  Comforting  Ferry. 
(So  hush-a-by,  weary  my  Dearie  !) 


114 


Ill 

Ballads 


The  Wrestler 

When  God  sends  out  His  company  to  travel  through 

the  stars, 
There  is  every  kind  of  wonder  in  the  show ; 
There  is  every  kind  of  animal  behind  its  prison  bars ; 
With  riders  in  a  many-colored  row. 
The  master   showman,  Time,  has  a  strange   trick   of 

rhyme, 
And  the  clown's  most  ribald  jest  is  a  tear ; 
But  the  best  drawing  card  is  the  Wrestler  huge  and 

hard, 
Who  can  fill  the  tent  at  any  time  of  year. 


117 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

His  eye  is  on  the  crowd,  and  he  beckons  with  his 

hand, 
With  authoritative  finger,  and  they  come. 
The  rules  of  the  game  they  do  not  understand, 
But  they  go  as  in  a  dream,  and  are  dumb. 
They  would  fain  say  him  nay,  and  they  look  the  other 

way, 
Till  at  last  to  the  ropes  they  cling. 
But  he  throws  them  one  by  one  till  the  show  for  them 

is  done, 
In  the  blood-red  dust  of  the  ring. 

There's  none  to  shun  his  challenge  —  they  must  meet 

him  soon  or  late. 
And  he  knows  a  cunning  trick  for  all  heels. 
The  king's  haughty  crown   drops  in  jeers   from   his 

pate 
As  the  hold  closes  on  him,  and  he  reels. 
ii8 


TJie    Wrestler 

The  burly  and  the  proud,  the  braggarts  of  the  crowd, 
Every  one  of  them  he  topples  down  in  thunder. 
His  grip  grows  mild  for  the  dotard  and   the  child, 
But  alike  they  must  all  go  under. 

Oh,  many  a   mighty   foeman    would    try  a    fall   with 

him  — 
Persepolis  and  Babylon  and  Rome, 
Assyria  and  Sardis,  they  see  their  fame  grow  dim, 
As  he  tumbles  in  the  dust  every  dome. 
At  length  will  come  an  hour  when  the  stars  shall  feel 

his  power. 
And  he  shall  have  his  will  upon  the  sun. 
Ere  we  know  what  he's  about,  the  stars  will   be  put 

out, 
And  the  wonder  of  the  show  will  be  undone. 


119 


The  Ballad  of  Crossing  the   Brook 

Oh,  it   was    a   dainty   maid    that   went    a-Maying  in 
the  morn, 
A  dainty,  dainty  maiden  of  degree. 
The  ways  she  took  were    merry   and    the   ways   she 
missed  forlorn. 
And  the  laughing  water  tinkled  to  the  sea. 

The  little  leaves  above  her  loved  the  dainty,  dainty 
maid  ; 
The  little  winds  they  kissed  her,  every  one  ; 
At  the  Hearing  of  her  little  feet  the  flowers  were  not 
afraid  ; 
And  the  water  lay  a-whimpling  in  the  sun. 
1 20 


The  Ballad  of  Crossing  the  Brook 

Oh,  the  dainty,  dainty  maid  to  the  borders  of  the  brook 
Lingered  down  as  lightly  as  the  breeze ; 

And  the  shy  water-spiders  quit  their  scurrying  to  look  ; 
And  the  happy  water  whispered  to  the  trees. 

She   was    fain    to   cross   the   brook,  was   the    dainty, 
dainty  maid ; 
But  first  she  lifted  up  her  elfin  eyes 
To  see  if  there  were   cavalier   or   clown   a-near   to 
aid, — 
And  the  water-bubbles  blinked  in  surprise. 

The  brook  bared  its  pebbles  to  persuade  her  dainty 
feet, 
But  the  dainty,  dainty  maid  was  not  content. 
She  had  spied  a  simple  country  lad  (for  dainty  maid 
unmeet). 
And  the  shy  water  twinkled  as  it  went. 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

As  the  simple  lad  drew  nigh,  then  this  dainty,  dainty 
maid, 

(O  maidens,  well  you  know  how  it  was  done  !) 
Stood  a-gazing  at  her  feet  until  he  saw  she  was  afraid 

Of  the  water  there  a-whimpling  in  the  sun. 

Now  that  simple  lad  had  in  him  all  the  makings  of 
a  man ; 
And  he  stammered,  "  I  had  better  lift  you  over  !  " 
Said  the  dainty,  dainty  maid  —  "  Do  you  really  think 
you  can?" 
And  the  water  hid  its  laughter  in  the  clover. 

So  he  carried  her  across,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 
And  his  foolish  heart  a-quaking  with  delight. 

And  the  maid  she  looked  him   over   with    her   elfin 
eyes  of  brown ; 
And  the  impish  water  giggled  at  his  plight. 

122 


The  Ballad  of  Crossing  the  Brook 

He  reached  the  other  side,  he  set  down  the  dainty 

maid ; 

But  he  trembled  so  he  couldn't  speak  a  word. 

Then   the   dainty,  dainty  maid  —  "  Thank  you.  Sir ! 

Good-day  !  "  she  said. 

And  the  water-bubbles  chuckled  as  they  heard. 

Oh,  she   tripped   away   so   lightly,  a-Maying   in   the 
morn. 

That  dainty,  dainty  maiden  of  degree  ; 
She  left  the  simple  country  lad  a-sighing  and  forlorn 

Where  the  mockins;  water  twinkled  to  the  sea. 


12^ 


Whitewaters 

Beside  the  wharf  at  Whitewaters 
The  loitering  ebb  with  noon  confers ; 
And  o'er  the  amber  flats  there  seems 
A  sleep  to  brood  of  sun  and  dreams. 

The  white  and  clustering  cottages, 
Thick  shadowed  ,by  their  windless  trees, 
Inhabit  such  a  calm,  that  change 
Goes  by  and  lets  her  face  grow  strange. 


124 


Whitewaters 

And  not  far  off,  on  tiptoe  seen, 
The  brown  dike  and  the  sky  between, 
A  shifting  field  that  heaves  and  slides, — 
The  blue  breast  of  the  Minas  tides. 

A-through  the  little  harbor  go 
The  currents  of  the  scant  Pereau, 
Drawn  slowly,  drawn  from  springs  unseen 
Amid  the  marsh's  vasts  of  green. 

Up  from  the  wharf  at  Whitewaters, 
Where  scarce  a  slim  sandpiper  stirs, 
A  yellow  roadway  climbs,  that  feels 
Few  footsteps  and  infrequent  wheels. 


125 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

It  climbs  to  meet  the  westering  sun 
Upon  the  heights  of  Blomidon, — 
Buhvark  of  peace,  whose  bastioned  form 
Out-bars  the  serried  hosts  of  storm. 


Down  to  the  wharf  at  Whitewaters, 
The  children  of  the  villagers 
One  drowsy,  windless  hour  of  noon 
Deep  in  the  green  mid-heart  of  June, 

Like  swallows  to  a  sunset  pool 
Came  chattering,  just  let  loose  from   school ; 
And  with  them  one  small  lad  of  four, 
Picked  up  as  they  flocked  past  his  door. 


126 


Whitewaters 

His  sea-blue,  merry  eyes,  his  hair 
Curling  and  like  the  corn-silk  fair. 
His  red,  sweet  mouth,  made  Hally  Clive 
Comely  as  any  lad  alive. 

His  father,  master  of  "  The  Foam," 
Drave  his  tight  craft  afar  from  home ; 
His  mother  —  peaceful  life  was  hers 
With  Hally,  safe  in  Whitewaters. 

And  in  his  sun-brown  arms  the  boy 
Carried  his  last,  most  cherished  toy; 
A  small  white  kitten,  free  from  fleck, 
With  a  blue  ribbon  round  its  neck. 


127 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

In  the  old  timbers  lapping  cool, 
About  the  wharf  the  tide  hung  full ; 
And  at  the  wharf-side,  just  afloat. 
Swung  lazily  an  old  gray  boat. 

About  the  froth-white  water's  edge. 

The  weedy  planks,  the  washing  sedge. 

And  in  and  out  the  rocking  craft. 

The  children  clambered,  splashed,  and  laughed. 

Till  presently,  grown  tired  of  play. 
Up  the  bright  road  they  raced  away; 
But  in  the  boat,  a  drowsy  heap. 
Curled  boy  and  kitten,  sound  asleep. 


128 


Whitcivaiers 

Warm  in   the  sunny  boat  they  slept. 
Soon  to  its  ebb  the  slow  tide  crept. 
By  stealthy  fingers,  soft  as  dream, 
The  boat  was  lured  into  the  stream. 

Out  from  the  wharf  it  slipped  and  swung 
On  the  old  rope  one  moment  hung  — 
Then  snapped  its  tether  and  away 
For  the  storm-beaten  outer  bay. 

In  Whitewaters,  in  Whitewaters, 
No  watcher  heeds,  no  rescuer  stirs. 
Out  from  the  port  the  currents  sweep 
With  Hally,  smiling  in  his  sleep. 


129 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

An  hour  they  drifted,  till  the  boat 
From  the  low  shore  one  scarce  might  note. 
The  kitten  climbed  the  prow,  and  mewed 
Against  the  watery  solitude. 

Then  Hally  woke,  and  stared  \vith  eyes 
Grown  round  and  dark  with  grieved  surprise. 
Where  were  the  children  gone?     And  where 
The  gray  old  wharf,  the  weedy  stair? 

Bewildered,  and  but  half  awake, 
He  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  would  break; 
Then,  as  his  lonely  terror  grew, 
Down  in  the  boat  himself  he  threw, 


130 


Whitewaters 

And  passionately  for  comfort  pressed 
The  kind  white  kitten  to  his  breasf. 
Through  the  thin  plank  his  hand  could  feel 
The  little  eddies  clutch  the  keel ; 

Lost  and  alone,  lost  and  alone, 
He  heard  the  long  wave-«hiss  and  moan. 
He  heard  the  wild  ebb  seethe  and  mourn 
Along  the  outer  shoals  forlorn. 

And  now  a  wind  that  chafed  the  flood 
Blew  down  from  Noel's  haunted  wood ; 
And  now  in  the  dread  tides  that  run 
Past  the  grim  front  of  Blomidon, 


131 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

Over  the  rolling  troughs,  between 
The  purple  gulfs,  the  slopes  of  green, 
With  sickening  glide  and  sullen  rest 
The  old  boat  climbed  from  crest  to  crest. 


That  day  in  his  good  ship,  "The  Foam," 
Shipmaster  Clive  was  speeding  home ; 
His  heart  was  light,  his  eyes  elate  ; 
His  voyage  had  been  fortunate. 

"  If  the  wind  holds,"  said  he,  "  to-night 
We'll  anchor  under  Kingsport  Light ;  — 
I'll  change  the  fogs  of  Fundy  wild 
For  Whitewaters  and  wife  and  child." 


132 


Whitewaters 

He  marked  the  drifting  boat,  and  laughed, 
"What  clumsy  lubber's  lost  his  craft?" 
"What's  that  that  walks  the  gunwale?"  cried 
A  sailor  leaning  o'er  the  side. 

The  Captain  raised  his  glass.     Said  he  — 
"  A  kitten  !     Some  one's  pet,  maybe  ! 
We'll  give  it  passage  in  '  The  Foam  '  "  — 
Soft  is  the  heart  that's  bound  for  home  ! 

"Stop  for  a  kitten?"  growled  the  mate: — • 
"  Look  to  the  sun  ;  we're  getting  late  ! 
If  we  lose  this  tack  we'll  lie  to-night 
A  long  ways  off  o'  Kingsport  Light." 


133 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

The  Captain  paused  irresolute  ;  — 
"To  leave  the  helpless  Httle  brute 
To  the  wrecked  seaman's  death  accurst, 
The  slow  fierce  hunger,  the  mad  thirst, — 

"  I  wish  not  my  worst  enemy 

Such  death  as  that !     Lay  to  !  "  said  he. 

The  ship  came  up  into  the  wind ; 

The  slackening  canvas  flapped  and  dinned  ; 

And  the  ship's  boat  with  scant  delay 
Was  swung  and  lowered  and  away, — 
The  Captain  at  the  helm,  and  four 
Stout  men  of  Avon  at  the  oar. 


134 


Wkitezvatcrs 

They  neared  the  drifting  craft ;  and  when 
They  bumped  against  her  gunwale,  then 
Hally  upraised  his  tumbled  head  ! 
"  My  God  !     My  boy  !  "  the  Captain  said. 


And  now  with  bellying  sails  "  The  Foam " 
Up  the  tossed  flood  went  straining  home  ; 
The  wind  blew  fair ;  she  lay  that  night 
At  anchor  under  Kingsport  Light. 

And  late  that  night,  in  gladness  deep 
Sank  father,  mother,  child,  to  sleep,  — 
Where  no  storm  breaks,  nor  terror  stirs 
The  peace  of  God  in  Whitewaters. 


135 


The  Forest  Fire 

The  night  was  grim  and  still  with  dread ; 

No  star  shone  down  from  heaven's  dome ; 
The  ancient  forest  closed  around 

The  settler's  lonely  home. 

There  came  a  glare  that  lit  the  north ; 

There  came  a  wind  that  roused  the  night ; 
But  child  and  father  slumbered  on, 

Nor  felt  the  growing  light. 


136 


TJie  Forest  Fire 

There  came  a  noise  of  flying  feet, 

With  many  a  strange  and  dreadful  cry ; 

And  sharp  flames  crept  and  leapt  along 
The  red  verge  of  the  sky. 

There  came  a  deep  and  gathering  roar. 

The  father  raised  his  anxious  head  ; 
He  saw  the  light,  like  a  dawn  of  blood, 

That  streamed  across  his  bed. 

It  lit  the  old  clock  on  the  wall, 
It  lit  the  room  with  splendor  wild, 

It  lit  the  fair  and  tumbled  hair 
Of  the  still  sleeping  child  ; 


137 


Tlie  Book  of  the  Native 

And  zigzag  fence,  and  rude  log  barn, 
And  chip-strewn  yard,  and  cabin  gray. 

Glowed  crimson  in  the  shuddering  glare 
Of  that  untimely  day. 

The  boy  was  hurried  from  his  sleep ; 

The  horse  was  hurried  from  his  stall ; 
Up  from  the  pasture  clearing  came 

The  cattle's  frightened  call. 

The  boy  was  snatched  to  the  saddle-bow. 

Wildly,  wildly,  the  father  rode. 
Behind  them  swooped  the  hordes  of  flame 

And  harried  their  abode. 


1^,8 


TJie  Forest  Fire 

The  scorching  heat  was  at  their  heels ; 

The  huge  roar  hounded  them  in  their  flight ; 
Red  smoke  and  many  a  flying  brand 

Flew  o'er  them  through  the  night. 

And  past  them  fled  the  wildwood  forms  — 
Far-striding  moose,  and  leaping  deer, 

And  bounding  panther,  and  coursing  wolf, 
Terrible-eyed  with  fear. 

And  closer  drew  the  fiery  death  ; 

Madly,  madly,  the  father  rode ; 
The  horse  began  to  heave  and  fail 

Beneath  the  double  load. 


139 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

The  father's  mouth  was  white  and  stem, 

But  his  eyes  grew  tender  with  long  farewell. 

He  said  :   "  Hold  fast  to  your  seat,  Sweetheart, 
And  ride  Old  Jerry  well  ! 

"  I  must  go  back.     Ride  on  to  the  river. 

Over  the  ford  and  the  long  marsh  ride, 
Straight  on  to  the  town.     And   I'll  meet   you, 
Sweetheart, 
Somewhere  on  the  other  side." 

He  slipped  from  the  saddle.     The  boy  rode  on. 

His  hand  clung  fast  in  the  horse's  mane; 
His  hair  blew  over  the  horse's  neck; 

His  small  throat  sobbed  with  pain. 


140 


The  Forest  Fire 

"  Father  !    Father  !  "    he  cried  aloud. 

The  howl  of  the  fire-wind  answered  him 
With  the  hiss  of  soaring  flames,  and  crash 

Of  shattering  limb  on  limb. 

But  still  the  good  horse  galloped  on, 

With  sinew  braced  and  strength  renewed. 

The  boy  came  safe  to  the  river  ford, 
And  out  of  the  deadly  wood. 


And  now  with  his  kinsfolk,  fenced  from  fear, 
At  play  in  the  heart  of  the  city's  hum, 

He  stops  in  his  play  to  wonder  why 
His  father  does  not  come  ! 


J41 


The  Vengeance  of  Gluskap 

A  Micmac  Legend 

Gluskap,  the  friend  and  father  of  his  race, 

With  help  in  need  went  journeying  three  days'  space. 

His  village  slept,  and  took  no  thought  of  harm, 
Secure  beneath  the  shadow  of  his  arm. 

But  wandering  wizards  watched  his  outward  path, 
And    marked  his  fenceless   dwelling  for  their  wrath. 

They  came  upon  the  tempest's  midnight  wings. 
With  shock  of  thunder  and  the  lightning's  slings, 
And  flame,  and  hail,  and  all  disastrous  things. 
142 


The    Vengeance  of  Glnskdp 

When  home  at  length  the  hero  turned  again, 
His  huts  were  ashes  and  his  servants  slain ; 
And  o'er  the  ruin  wept  a  slow,  great  rain. 

He  wept  not ;    but  he  cried  a  mighty  word 
Across  the  wandering  sea,  and  the  sea  heard. 

Then  came  great  whales,  obedient  to  his  hand. 
And  bare  him  to  the  demon-haunted  land, 

Where,  in  malign  morass  and  ghostly  wood 
And  grim  cliff-cavern,  lurked  the  evil  brood. 

And  scarce  the  avenger's  foot  had  touched  their  coast 
Ere  horror  seized  on  all  the  wizard  host, 
And  in  their  hiding-places  hushed  the  boast. 


143 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

He  grew  and  gloomed  before  them  like  a  cloud, 
And  his  eye  drew  them  till  they  cried  aloud, 

And  withering  like  spent  flame  before  his  frown 
They  ran  forth  in  a  madness  and  fell  down. 

Rank  upon  rank  they  lay  without  a  moan, — 

His  finger  touched  them,  and  their  hearts  grew  stone. 

All  round  the  coasts  he  heaped  their  stiffened  clay  ; 
And  the  seamews  wail  o'er  them  to  this  day. 


144 


The  Muse  and  the  Wheel 

The  poet  took  his  wheel  one  day 

A-wandering  to  go, 
But  soon  fell  out  beside  the  way, 

The  leaves  allured  him  so. 

He  leaned  his  wheel  against  a  tree 
And  in  the  shade  lay  down  ; 

And  more  to  him  were  bloom  and  bee 
Than  all  the  busy  town. 


145 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

He  listened  to  the  Phoebe-bird 

And  learned  a  thing  worth  knowing. 

He  lay  so  still  he  almost  heard 
The  merry  grasses  growing. 

He  lay  so  still  he  dropped  asleep ; 

And  then  the  Muse  came  by. 
The  stars  were  in  her  garment's  sweep, 

But  laughter  in  her  eye. 

"  Poor  boy  ! "  she  said,  "  how  tired  he  seems  ! 

His  vagrant  feet  must  follow 
So  many  loves,  so  many  dreams,  — 

(To  find  them  mostly  hollow  !) 


146 


TJic  Muse  and  the    Wheel 

"  No  marvel  if  he  does  not  feel 
My  old  familiar  nearness  !  " 

And  then  her  gaze  fell  on  his  wheel 
And  wondered  at  its  queerness. 

"Can  you  be  Pegasus,"  she  mused, 
"To  modern  mood  translated. 

But  poorly  housed,  and  meanly  used, 
And  grown  attenuated? 

"  Ah,  no,  you're  quite  another  breed 
From  him  who  once  would  follow 

Across  the  clear  Olympian  mead 
The  calling  of  Apollo  ! 


M-7 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

"  No  Hippocrene  would  leap  to  light 
If  you  should  stamp  your  hoof. 

You  never  knew  the  pastures  bright 
Wherein  we  lie  aloof. 

"  You  never  drank  of  Helicon, 
Or  strayed  in  Tempe's  vale. 

You  never  soared  against  the  sun 
Till  earth  grew  faint  and  pale. 

"  You  bear  my  poor  deluded  boy 

Each  latest  love  to  see  ! 
But  Pegasus  would  mount  with  joy 

And  bring  him  straight  to  me  ! " 


148 


The  Muse  and  the    Wheel 

He  woke.     The  olden  spell  was  strong 

Within  his  eager  bosom ; 
And  so  he  wrote  a  mystic  song 

Upon  the  nearest  blossom. 

He  wrote,  until  a  sudden  whim 
Set  all  his  bosom  trembling ; 

Then  sped  to  woo  a  maiden  slim 
His  latest  love  resembling. 


149 


The  "  Laughing  Sally  " 

A  wind  blew  up  from  Pernambuco. 

(Yeo  heave  ho  !  the  "  Laughing  Sally  "  ! 
Hi  yeo,  heave  away  !  ) 
A  wind  blew  out  of  the  east-sou'-east 

And  boomed  at  the  break  of  day. 

The  "Laughing  Sally"  sped  for  her  life. 

And  a  speedy  craft  was  she. 
The  black  flag  flew  at  her  top  to  tell 
How  she  took  toll  of  the  sea. 


150 


The  "  Laughing  Sally  " 

The  wind  blew  up  from  Pemambuco ; 

And  in  the  breast  of  the  blast 
Came  the  King's  black  ship,  like  a  hound  let  slip 

On  the  trail  of  the  "Sally"  at  last. 

For  a  day  and  a  night,  a  night  and  a  day ; 

Over  the  blue,  blue  round, 
Went  on  the  chase  of  the  pirate  quarry, 

The  hunt  of  the  tireless  hound. 

"  Land  on  the  port  bow  ! "  came  the  cry ; 

And  the  "  Sally "  raced  for  shore. 
Till  she  reached  the  bar  at  the  river-mouth 

Where  the  shallow  breakers  roar. 


151 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

She  passed  the  bar  by  a  secret  channel 
With  clear  tide  under  her  keel, — 

For  he  knew  the  shoals  Hke  an  open  book, 
The  captain  at  the  wheel. 

She  passed  the  bar,  she  sped  like  a  ghost, 
Till  her  sails  were  hid  from  view 

By  the  tall,  liana'd,  unsunned  boughs 
O'erbrooding  the  dark  bayou. 

At  moonrise  up  to  the  river-mouth 
Came  the  King's  black  ship  of  war. 

The  red  cross  flapped  in  wrath  at  her  peak, 
But  she  could  not  cross  the  bar. 


152 


TJie  ^^ Laughing  Sally'' 

And  while  she  lay  in  the  run  of  the  seas, 
By  the  grimmest  whim  of  chance 

Out  of  a  bay  to  the  north  came  forth 
Two  battle-ships  of  France. 

On  the  EngUsh  ship  the  twain  bore  down 
Like  wolves  that  range  by  night ; 

And  the  breaker's  roar  was  heard  no  more 
In  the  thunder  of  the  fight. 

The  crash  of  the  broadsides  rolled  and  stormed 

To  the  ''Sally,"  hid  from  view 
Under  the  tall,  liana'd  boughs 

Of  the  moonless,  dark  bayou. 


153 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

A  boat  ran  out  for  news  of  the  fight, 
And  this  was  the  word  she  brought  — 

"  The  King's  ship  fights  the  ships  of  France 
As  the  King's  ships  all  have  fought  !  " 

Then  muttered  the  mate,  "  I'm  a  man  of  Devon  ! ' 
And  the  captain  thundered  then  — 

"  There's  EngUsh  rope  that  bides  for  our  necks, 
But  we  all  be  English  men  ! " 

The  "  Sally  "  glided  out  of  the  gloom 
And  down  the  moon-white  river. 

She  stole  like  a  gray  shark  over  the  bar 
Where  the  long  surf  seethes  forever. 


154 


The  *^ Laughing  Sally" 

She  hove  to  under  a  high  French  hull, 
And  the  red  cross  rose  to  her  peak. 

The  French  were  looking  for  fight  that  night, 
And  they  hadn't  far  to  seek. 

Blood  and  fire  on  the  streaming  decks, 

And  fire  and  blood  below ; 
The  heat  of  hell,  and  the  reek  of  hell, 

And  the  dead  men  laid  a-row  ! 

And  when  the  stars  paled  out  of  heaven 
And  the  red  dawn-rays  uprushed. 

The  oaths  of  battle,  the  crash  of  timbers, 
The  roar  of  the  guns  were  hushed. 


155 


The  Book  of  the  Native 

With  one  foe  beaten  under  his  bow, 

The  other  afar  in  flight, 
The  English  captain  turned  to  look 

For  his  fellow  in  the  fight. 

The  English  captain  turned,  and  stared ;  • 
For  where  the  "  Sally  "  had  been 

Was  a  single  spar  upthrust  from  the  sea 
With  the  red-cross  flag  serene  ! 


A  wind  blew  up  from  Pernambuco,  — 
(Yeo  heave  ho  !  the  ''  Laughing  Sally  "  ! 
Hi  yeo,  heave  away  !  ) 
And   boomed  for  the  doom  of  the  "  Laughing 
Sally,  " 
Gone  down  at  the  break  of  day. 


156 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

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